


There are Better Ways to Die

by breathe_out



Series: Old Works [4]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-27
Updated: 2021-01-27
Packaged: 2021-03-12 22:53:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29018514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/breathe_out/pseuds/breathe_out
Summary: Dirk has abused Dave for a long time. One day, the situation escalates beyond either of their control.
Series: Old Works [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2117211
Kudos: 5





	There are Better Ways to Die

Dave sits straight up in his bed, shaking and holding his breath. A noise from somewhere in the apartment has awoken him from his slumber. A series of loud curses echoes through the apartment. His heart races in panic; his brother has been drinking again. He shoves his sweaty comforter aside and jumps out of the bed, nearly tumbling over in his haste. Dave shoves the bedroom door closed and bolts it. Slowly, he backs away, his eyes solely trained on the door. But his brother’s anger seems to have abated. Dave inhales deeply before finally turning back to the bed.

He pauses as his fingers brush past a photo frame lying on top of his night stand. He picks it up gingerly and stares at the photograph: four people, all with similar likeness, standing together to pose for the cameraman. A beautiful woman on the tips of her toes is reaching up to kiss her husband on the cheek, and two kids in the middle are grinning madly with joy. One of them is taller than the other, who is just a toddler. That one is Dave, and this is his family.

Everyone grins at him from the photo, a memory captured in a single moment in time. Even his own pudgy cheeks are open in a wide smile. There's an early bridge of freckles scattered across his nose. His mom's hand is caressing his shoulder. The Dirk he knows now, grim and aged beyond his years, is nothing like the one he sees beside his dad. He appears wiry and aloof; there is a skateboard under his right arm. 

To Dave, the photo is nothing more than a distant echo of the past. Looking at it now, he feels the familiar ache of loss burn through his chest. It is a feeling that he has never figured out how to properly handle. 

He places the photo gingerly under his pillow. Dirk does not need to find it.

Suddenly, Dirk is pounding on his door, its frame trembling under his wrath. 

“Dave, open up!” he shouts, “Seriously, man.” 

His words are slurred and nearly unintelligible. He has been out - again. Dave’s head pounds with the beginnings of a headache. The very last thing he wants to do is ever open that door. His brother has a nasty way of dealing with things, especially if he deems that Dave has done something wrong.

Once, Dirk had broken the door off its hinges and forced Dave to drink alcohol until he was sick for days. Twice, Dirk had barged in to berate him and call him names. Countless times, he had threatened Dave and manhandled him until he was too exhausted to continue torturing him. Dave still had bruises that throbbed under his clothes from Dirk’s last drunken rage. When his older brother was intoxicated, his shadow of anger always fell on Dave. 

But Dave knows that punishment is always worse, so he opens the door. Dirk is dressed in wrinkled track clothing and a broad-brimmed baseball cap. He smirks down at him, his eyes hazy and unfocused. 

“What do you want?” Dave sighs. 

Dirk swaggers into the room and leans against the opposite wall, next to the window that looks out into the city. “Just checkin’ on my little bro.” 

Dave knows better. He can practically see the cogwheels turning in Dirk’s head. He has malicious intentions in mind, otherwise Dirk would not have insisted on coming into Dave’s bedroom. They tended to avoid each other like the plague when Dirk was sober. Things had changed between them a long time ago.

Dirk lurches forward suddenly and grasps Dave’s chin. Dave recoils back, but his brother’s grip is surprisingly strong. That is when he notices it: the unmistakable smell of iron mingled with sweat. Dirk is covered in dried blood. His heart drops as fear claws its way up his throat. Dave thrusts his brother away, intent on putting as much distance between them as possible. 

“Wh-What is that? What did you do?” 

Dave is trembling from head to toe now. The situation has abruptly escalated beyond what he normally expects in his day-to-day life. His mind is dizzy with questions, but one sticks out above the rest: who’s blood is it? Some small, desperate part of him hopes that what he is seeing is not real. It has never, ever gone this far.

Dirk’s cheeks flush in fury. He rushes forward again and catches Dave’s wrist, squeezing it so tight that it might break. 

“It doesn’t matter what I did, okay?.” he kneels down and clutches Dave’s shoulders too tightly, “They are coming for me, man. I won’t let them take you away.” 

Dave stares into his brother’s wide, manic eyes. He is too frightened to reply. 

Suddenly, there is a loud series of knocks against the front door downstairs. They both freeze in momentary shock. Dirk’s breathing is erratic as he reaches to grip Dave’s thin wrist. Dave halfheartedly tugs away, but his brother has always been stronger than him. Dirk drags him down the steps and into the entry way, where there are men shouting and threatening to break down the door.

Dirk pushes his little brother in front of him, like a shield. He slides his arm around Dave’s neck. Dirk grabs a dull cutlery knife from the kitchen counter. Dave feels faint as Dirk tightens his hold, partially cutting off his blood circulation and making it more difficult to breathe. 

“D-Dirk, what are you doing?” Dave struggles against his brother in a futile attempt to escape. He digs his bitten nails into Dirk’s forearm in vain. 

The wooden door splinters and bursts open in one great heave. Men suited in black tactical armor hustle in as it crashes to the floor. They immediately point their weapons at Dirk, who presses the cold blade of the knife against Dave’s vulnerable throat. 

“I’ll kill him; I swear I will kill him!” Dirk growls menacingly.

But this is not a movie. There is no negotiation here, especially when a child’s life is at stake.

A policeman fingers the trigger: sending a single bullet racing through the air. It embeds itself in Dirk’s skull.

Dirk’s hold on Dave loosens and he crumples to the ground in a heap. For a moment, time seems to stand very still. The feeling of his brother’s warm body pressed against his back is gone. Dirk is lying wide-eyed on the floor with a hole in his forehead. Blood pulses out of the fatal wound and sinks into the carpet at Dave’s feet, quickly soaking his off-white socks. The shock of the entire situation has momentarily short-circuited his brain. 

Then, the seconds begin to tick away once again. Time always moves forward, but Dave briefly wishes that he could turn the clock back just this once. 

The next five hours are a blur of noise and color. Dave is gently guided away from his brother’s sprawled body. They make their way out through the entry way and into the hall. Then, out of the apartment building. A flood of sound startles him once he is outside. There are dozens of bystanders crowded around the building, including a few well-informed journalists. A group of police officers are herding the crowd and asking them to keep their distance. A barricade with black and yellow stripes is being put in place when Dave is thrust into a bright ambulance.  
The sun glares at him through the windows and mocks him. The weather should be dull and dark, and the world should be drenched in monochrome. To Dave, the color has been sucked out of everything. His newfound grief is a raw ache inside his chest.

Dave allows himself to be taken away from that horrible scene. He is quickly thrust into the care of sympathetic nurses and kind doctors. Dave can only mutely nod or hum when strangers in uniform start asking him questions. His brain feels sluggish and his body is numb. The only thing that feels real is the thin cut against his throat where the knife had scraped him. 

At some point, they finally leave him alone. He spends hours tossing and turning in a hospital bed, until a man and woman in dark suits arrive to talk to him. They smile at him with sympathy or pity, something that he is already getting sick of seeing. Everyone feels sorry for him and he fucking hates it.

“Hi, Dave. My name is Jessica and this is Neil. How are you holding up?” The woman has a soft, kind voice. She crosses her legs awkwardly in the metal chair that has been pulled next to the bed. Neil stands beside her, tall and silent.

“What do you want?” his voice is tiny and sounds like nails against chalkboard. 

Jessica’s expression shifts as she glances at her partner and leans forward. “Dave, your brother did some very bad things.”

Dave stares at her. He swallows the lump in his throat. “Dirk is – was, great. He took care of me.” 

“Dave, you know that’s not true. We saw the apartment.” 

She speaks gently. She reaches out to place her hand over his. He feels as fragile and transparent as glass. “Can you tell us what happened?” she asks. 

Dave licks his cracked lips and averts his eyes. He can barely breathe. They know what Dirk has done to him. The police have picked through the entire apartment like scavengers. They have seen the weapons displayed on the wall like trophies, the empty pantry cabinets, and moldy milk in the fridge. They have seen the bandages coated in blood in Dave’s room, from when he had hastily treated his own wounds after a scuffle with his brother. They have seen the oddity of puppets that had been his brother’s obsession, as well as the illicit drugs stuffed into several of their backs. 

They have seen everything – yet they know nothing. Dave’s trauma is a bottomless pit of pain and anger.

“Did he ever hurt you, Dave?” Jessica asks. Dave finally lifts his head to meet her searching eyes. He sees sympathy there, but understanding, too. 

Her hand is still over his when she brushes her thumb across it gently – so tenderly and caring that it causes his heart to lurch. “Did he give you that bruise?” 

Dave deftly lifts his other hand to run his fingers over the yellow-green bruise on his right cheek. Dirk had been merciless during a fight a few days earlier. He had told Dave that he deserved it, too. 

That is when the full scale of the situation finally settles on his shoulders. His shoulders, which are bruised in the shape of fingers from when Dirk had pinned him in the bedroom. The cuts and scrapes and marks on his body are the final imprints of abuse that Dirk Strider has left behind. He is dead. 

Dirk is dead and, in a morgue, somewhere far away where he will never regain consciousness. He will never be able to hurt Dave again. Then, the bruises will fade in time, but the memories will always stay. 

Dave thinks back to the photograph tucked under the pillow in his room. The picture is crystal clear in his mind: his mother and father, holding their children close, eyes alight like stars with the sheer adoration they share for one another. Every single person in that picturesque moment is gone. 

Then, he recalls a singular childhood memory: his brother with a gap-toothed grin, so full of life under a clear summer sky. 

Hot tears well in his eyes, and a gut-wrenching sob wracks Dave’s body when he finally allows himself to break.

**Author's Note:**

> not the best, but I wrote this seven years ago (?) and it seemed salvageable


End file.
